Isn't She Lovely, A Drabble Prompt series
by Queequg471
Summary: A series of drabbles from Tumblr. Still taking prompts should you be so inclined. Mostly Polivia and Polivietta.
1. Etta's First Birthday

Okay, this was a drabble prompt from Tumblr. As I was writing, A Mother's Prayer by Celine Dion came on. Cue tears. Why, iTunes, why.

—- _break_ -

If it were up to her, there wouldn't even be a party.

Peter had insisted, though. Etta had giggled as he tickled her stomach, and Peter had insisted that meant yes in baby language, and who was she to argue with his genius IQ? That had earned him a smack on the shoulder, but she relented. There would be a party to celebrate her daughter's first birthday.

Her daughter. She still hadn't gotten used to it. Add that to the fact that her little baby, who Olivia couldswearshe had just given birth to yesterday, was a full year old, happy and healthy, and this day just seemed like a dream.

The party itself was fairly small. Astrid, Walter, Broyles, and the other Lincoln and Olivia. Peter noted the way the other Lincoln picked up Etta, played with her, danced her around the room to her delighted squeals, and suspected it may not be long before both Olivias found themselves mothers.

The aftermath of Etta's cake looked like a veritable cake explosion in the living room, as their daughter had taken great pleasure in flinging the cake anywhere she could.

And around 8pm, everyone had departed, with Olivia claiming just as well, it was Etta's bedtime anyway.

Carefully removing her daughter from the high chair in just her diaper, she assessed the child. Etta seized the pause as an opportunity, smearing her cake-covered hand down her mother's cheek and laughing at the mess it created.

"Very funny," Olivia mock scolded. "Mommy doesn't need a cake bath, thank you very much. But I think a certain birthday girl needs an actual bath."

"We're gonna be cleaning cake off the furniture for the next month!" Peter exclaimed as he assessed the damage.

"Correction -Daddy'sgonna be cleaning cake off the furniture for the next month. Party was your idea, remember, Mr. Genius IQ?"

"Eidetic memory. No fair." Peter groaned, and Olivia laughed and shoved him in the direction of the kitchen.

"Get to work, slave. I've gotta give the birthday girl a bath."

—- _break_ -

Twenty minutes, some very brown water, and three soapings later, Olivia carried a clean one-year-old to her room. Quickly diapering her child, she dressed her in a soft onesie with "Sweet Dreams" written across the front. Etta yawned, and Olivia knew if she were to lay the child in her crib, Etta would fall asleep easily.

However, she found herself making her way to the handcarved rocking chair that had been (suprisingly) a gift from Broyles. Settling Etta in her arms, Olivia rocked her from side to side as one would a newborn, breathing in the soft blueberry scent of her daughter's hair.

Against her chest, Etta's breathing evened out, and she relaxed into the safety of her mother's embrace.

Olivia laid her cheek against her daughter's, just breathing her in for long moments.

"You are special, Henrietta Elizabeth Bishop. Never forget that. You are so special. Mommy loves you so much."


	2. You're Not So Bad Yourself

Prompt: Peter takes Liv to a street fair.

Okay, now I'm rigging my iTunes. Put it on the funny playlist for this one.

Also, this was a fluff prompt and we all know how awful I am at writing fluff :P However, "Superdate" from HIMYM did come on, which I thought was pretty appropriate :P.

—- _break_ -

She didn't actually think he remembered. Now that they were living together, and that request was, you know, in a bygone timeline, she'd only assumed he forgot. She would have, but as her new memories returned, it was the tiny moments that were present with shocking clarity.

_Well, I woke up early and it's actually warm outside. And there's this great street fair on Memorial Drive. _

_You like a street fair?_

_I love a good street fair. And you're not so bad yourself._

__But they had been interrupted, as always. By a new case, by William Bell, by the shapeshifters, even by some combination of the three.

So when Peter ordered her to get her shoes and get in the car one night, she wasted no time asking him exactly what his intentions were.

(Actually, Peter would later swear that there were…far less gentle words involved_ Give it up, Bishop. Where the hell are we going?,_specifically).

The fair was set up maybe ten minutes from their new house (they were still in the process of moving), and unusually crowded for seven o'clock. Immediately upon realizing where they were, Olivia's mouth fell open. She turned to Peter, who simply squeezed her hand and mumbled "you _did_ say you loved a good street fair."

With a smile, she stroked his cheek. "You just never stop surprising me, Peter Bishop."

His cheeks reddened adorably, and Olivia correctly guessed he had been worried if she'd remember their conversation from long ago.

Reaching down, Olivia laced her fingers with Peter's and tugged him towards the fair.

"Come on, Bishop. We have an entire list of street fair cliches to accomplish and so little time to do it in!"

—- _break_ -

"My girl can unrig carnival games. With her _mind_."

Olivia laughed, feeling lighter than she had in months.

"That's the fifth time you've said that. In as many minutes."

"I'm just saying. Although, when you think about it, it isn't really fighting for the side of justice when you cheat a cheater by cheating."

"Weird sentence. Best not to think too much about it," Olivia giggled, "And I say this as a Fringe agent."

"I guess you're right. So, on the list of carnival cliches, we've ticked off games, teddy-bear-we'll never-use winning - "

"Baby might use it," Olivia offered.

"Eating a massive quantity of food right before getting on a ride and almost vomiting.."

"You, not me, Peter. And I'm the pregnant one." Olivia pointed out, laying a kiss on his cheek.

"So I suppose there's only one left," Peter continued as if Olivia hadn't spoken. She followed his pointing finger to the ferris wheel.

"Really? The machine that is almost designed to break?"

Peter pulled her into his arms, giving her lips a little peck, before producing two tickets out of his pocket.

"Don't worry, Liv. If it does get stuck, I'm _sure_ we can think of a way to kill time.


	3. For The Nights I Can't Remember

Prompt: Etta reminisces about what life might have been like before her parents were frozen in Amber, and snaps back to reality staring into her mother's frozen Amber covered eyes.

For this, Remember When by Alan Jackson came on shuffle. WHY U HATE ME AND MY EMOTIONS, iTunes?

She imagines they would have taken her to school.

During the times where Natives were still allowed to go to school, that is. As it was, she was dragged into the yard by Nina Sharp, whose patience was waning fast. Even at five, Etta was determined not to cry. They would never see her cry.

Her mommy never cried.

So Etta stood in a yard teeming with children, her eyes welling, tugging at the sleeve of her new dress.

Mommy would want her to be brave.

Mommy _told _her to be brave.

_"It's time for you to be strong now, little butterfly. You must keep looking up, and learn to fight. Mommy and Daddy love you so much. So much, baby…"_

And Etta will be strong. She won't cry, she won't beg for her family, she won't even take her little Gene into the classroom because big, brave butterflies don't have toys.

Nina gave her a hug when the bell rung, and she _knows_ she felt her grandmother tense as "Mommy" slips out against little Etta's will.

—- _break_ -

Had they been there, Etta imagines (hopes) her mother _would_ have cried. She would have held tight to Etta's little hand, and held her father's with the other. They'd have to pry Olivia's fingers from Etta's, and she would hug her mother and tell her she'd be fine, and she and Daddy could have some grown-up time, like they said they were having that day when she tried to open the locked door to her mother's room, and had quickly been **sheparded** downstairs and placed in front of a movie.

They would have been waiting at the end of the day, and her father would run to her, lift her onto his shoulders, and run back to her mother, with Etta clinging to his neck and laughing.

Eventually, she would have gotten used to school, and their family would have made new moments.

They would go for a walk to a carnival, and she would make her father let her ride the horse.

She would nap curled into Gene, warm and safe.

Grandpa Walter would sneak her Red vines.

Aunt Astrid would read her books, a new voice for every new character.

And most importantly, she would end each day curled between biggest heroes in her young life, her mother stroking her hair, her grip slackening on her father's hand as she fell asleep.

She can see it so clearly, she can almost reach out and touch her mother's face.

—- _break_ -

It isn't until her fingers hit the hard amber, until her blue eyes, her father's eyes, take in her mother's cold, lifeless eyes staring back at her, that Etta remembers.

Nothing is safe. Everything is a fight.

And her fight for her family is just beginning.


	4. The Living Years

Prompt: Walter and Etta baking with Polivia looking on.

"Fetch the cup, my dear! The recipe clearly dicatates only half of a cup, but that is simply not enough for a decent cake. Wouldn't you agree, Etta?"

Eighteen month old Etta gave a vigorous nod, and immediately climbed down from her toddler stool to "fat the cup" (her determined mumble was clearly audible) and Walter couldn't fight the amused smile that broke out.

Walter turned back to the cake, still hearing Etta rummaging around in the cupboards, scouting out a cup.

"You know, this is an _original_ Bishop family recipe, Etta. I used to cook it when courting your grandmother. She would love it so, and inevitably, it lead too.."

"Gran-pa!" Etta's insistent tug came on Walter's pant leg.

"Ah yes, dear. Do you have the cup?"

Etta nodded vigorously, one hand behind her back.

He held out his hand. "Can Grandpa Walter have it?"

Another vigorous nod, and Etta proudly brandished her sippy cup from behind her back.

"Cup!" she grinned.

"Etta. dear, grandpa meant the m_easuring_ cup," Walter said, squatting down to his granddaughter's level.

"Cup!" Etta insisted, strong holding the cup into her grandfather's hand.

"No, this is _Etta's_ cup. We need a special cup."

" 'ta cup. 'pecial." Etta nodded.

Walter chuckled. "Okay, we can use the special Etta cup. We simply need to ascertain which level marks the appropriate sugar content…"

The old scientist busied himself with calculations, while his granddaughter studied him.

"Aha! The volume is roughly equivalent to that of a measuring cup, it's simply more oblong, so we won't have to change the measurements at all. Clever girl!"

Walter gave Etta's stomach a little tickle, eliciting a giggle from the child, as he poured in the final ingredient.

"Now, all that's to do is put it in the oven! What a brilliant child, Grandpa didn't even need to tell you where all the ingredients were! Now, what to do in the meantime?"

"Cake!"

"Not now, little one, it's cooking."

Etta seemed to consider that, her mouth forming into a pout so like her mother's.

" 'bob?"

"Spongebob! An excellent idea! Come, my brilliant grandchild, Spongebob it is!"

—- _break_ -

"Cake!"

"Exactly! The recipe, though faded, determines this to be the exact amount of time."

"Mommy?"

"No, Henrietta. Mommy does not have anything to do with this."

"Cow?"

"Nor Gene. Shall we focus on the cake?"

"Cake!"

Walter prides himself on remembering oven mitts as he retrieves the cake.

His first indication is that it is not nearly as hot as it should be. His second indication is a far better one.

He supposes he should have seen it coming. Etta did have an affinity for mud pies, and the cake was a spitting image.

Then there was the "Etta, no!" coming from the doorway a split second before it happened.

The sensation of the cake, propelled by Etta's chubby hand, hitting his face was shocking at first. A blend of hot, cold, wet and solid hit his face all at once, and he sputtered, perhaps one or two choice words slipping out.

"Shit, mommy!" he hears his grandchild squeal, and then Olivia's lilting giggle.

"Should have warned you, Walter. Baking with Etta is a bit of a dangerous process."

"Shit," the child in question chimed in helpfully.


End file.
